Armada. John Stack

havoc in the Spanish Main not two years before.

      Drake’s attack was only one of a litany of insults suffered by the Spanish over the previous years. The flota, despite sailing in convoy, was under constant threat from English pirates who returned to the bosom of their Queen after every attack, sheltering like cowards under her protestations of innocence and justification. Elizabeth was openly supporting the Protestant rebels of the United Provinces, in defiance of King Philip’s demands that England remained neutral in what Spain believed was an internal conflict.

      Now the whole of Spain was rife with the rumour that Elizabeth had murdered her own cousin, Mary Stuart, who in Catholic eyes was the rightful claimant to the throne of England over the bastard queen spawned of an adulterous affair. There could be no higher crime, no greater offence. The English and Elizabeth had gone too far. Although the Armada had been in preparation before Mary’s execution, her death had filled Spanish hearts with a religious fervour and a thirst for righteous vengeance that could not be quenched.

      Until the English were crushed, the seas around Spain would never be secure. It galled Evardo that his countrymen could not call themselves safe from molestation in their home waters. He reached out to touch the gunwale of the Halcón, taking solace from the fact that soon the galleon would be in English waters, repaying tenfold the insults suffered by the Spanish Empire and the divine faith of his forefathers.

      The wind howled through the shrouds and rigging, a fearful wail that gave voice to the fury of the storm. Robert leaned against the fall of the quarterdeck, his safety line biting into his waist as the bow of the Retribution cut through the crest of a wave. The seawater swept over the bulwark and ran ankle deep across the main deck before fleeing through the scuppers. He looked skyward, searching for the sun he had not seen in days, but the iron-grey clouds filled the heavens, bloated by the unceasing wind.

      The Retribution was sailing broad reach under bare yards with only storm tops’ls unfurled. The wind had screamed out of the south-west three days before, scattering the English fleet just as it had sighted Cape Finisterre on the north-western corner of Spain. Robert had been on deck ever since, unable to go below and turn his back on a sea that he had long ago discovered rewarded complacency with treachery. He had slept in the lee of the quarterdeck, snatching fitful hours while Seeley took the watch. He had quickly come to trust his younger mate. Seeley’s hand and nerve were as steady as his own.

      The wind shifted and ebbed slightly and Robert looked again to the line of his ship.

      ‘Steady the helm!’ he shouted, his voice carrying through the open hatch to the helmsman, Price, on the main deck beneath him. Price tightened his grip on the whipstaff and braced his powerful legs against the increasing press of the sea against the rudder. The tiller, attached to the other end of the whipstaff two decks below him, remained steady and the bow of the Retribution held firm.

      Robert smiled despite the gnawing fatigue he could feel permeating his every sense. The galleon was a breed apart from any ship he had ever sailed on before and he marvelled at the genius of her design. Even in such heavy weather her longer, slimmer hull and lower fore and aft castles improved her handling and manoeuvrability beyond measure. He squinted through the driving rain to the sea ahead, searching for other ships of the fleet, but visibility had dropped to less than three miles and the towering grey-backed waves hemmed the Retribution in on all sides.

      Over the roar of the wind Robert heard, ‘Report, Mister Varian,’ and he turned to see the captain approach.

      ‘As before, Captain,’ Robert shouted, his hand cupped over the side of his mouth, ‘wind holding south-west, at least thirty knots. I estimate we are forty-five degrees north, over a hundred miles north-north-east of Cape Finisterre, in the Bay of Biscay.’

      Robert could not be sure, for it had been impossible to accurately sight the sun at noon over the previous days to determine their exact latitude, while their longitude could only be determined by dead reckoning, an inaccurate task in such a storm. Captain Morgan nodded regardless, trusting his new master.

      ‘Any other ships in sight?’ he asked, wiping the airborne spray from his face.

      Robert glanced at the lookout at the top of the main mast. His head was darting from side to side, covering the points of the ship but he showed no signs of having sighted any other sail.

      ‘Nothing,’ Robert shouted. ‘Not since the Dreadnought near dawn. We lost sight of her over three hours ago.’

      ‘And no sign of survivors from the Deer?’ Morgan asked, his voice betraying his anticipation of the answer even as Robert shook his head.

      The Deer, a pinnace, had been lost early in the storm, the smaller vessel floundering under the first savage blows as the front overtook the English fleet. Robert, with the rest of the crew of the Retribution, had observed her sinking, the ship slipping beneath the waves not four hundred yards off the starboard beam. Many of the men on board the Retribution had called out in vain to the few survivors they could see in the water, urging them to make for the galleon or to cling on to whatever debris they could find, to hold fast until the storm abated and the longboat of the Retribution could be launched to rescue them. But the wind had never eased, had never backed off, and in desperation they had seen the men disappear one by one, some carried away by the tempest, while others slipped beneath the torrid surface of the sea.

      Movement at the top of the main mast caught Robert’s eye and he looked up to see the lookout shouting down to the quarterdeck. His cry of alarm was lost in the wind but the direction of his arm pointed out the danger. Robert slipped his safety line and ran up to the poop deck to stare out over the aft gunwale. The approaching wave filled his vision, its wind torn crest standing twice as tall as the waves before it.

      ‘Look out for’ard,’ he roared in warning to the crew and he jumped back down to the quarterdeck. The wave crashed over the starboard quarter. A wall of water surged over the ship, engulfing the men on the main deck, carrying one of them over the side. The stern of the Retribution swung to port under the force of the wave, bringing her broadside to the storm. The main deck was awash and the crew desperately clawed at the timbers as the sea tried to claim them.

      The storm tops’ls lost their shape and the halyard of a brace to the main tops’l yard snapped under the unequal stress of the wind, its block and tackle swinging wildly across the quarterdeck, striking one man on the side of the head, killing him instantly. The yard swung around the mainmast, twisting the sail out of shape and the wind spilled from it, rendering it useless.

      ‘Main tops’l ho!’ Robert shouted even as Shaw, the boatswain, ordered two men, Ellis and Foster, aloft, following closely on their heels as they clambered up the shrouds. ‘Helmsman, hard a starboard.’

      Price swept the whipstaff to port, the tiller moving in reverse beneath him, coming hard up against the starboard. The bow swung slightly to port but with only the foremast storm tops’l to carry the weight of the entire galley, the Retribution could not make headway. She pitched violently as the waves crashed into her broadside.

      ‘Mister Seeley,’ Robert shouted over the roar of the wind, ‘take men forward and secure the braces to the yards of the foremast. If they fail we’re lost.’ Seeley nodded and Robert turned his attention to the men ascending the mainmast.

      The pitch of the deck was making the climb difficult and more than once the men almost lost their footing on the shrouds as the ship heeled over. They reached the height of the main tops’l yard fifty feet above the main deck and Robert watched as Shaw directed Ellis and Foster to secure a new line for the brace. They worked swiftly, sidestepping out the footrope to the edge of the yard and within minutes Ellis descended with the new line.

      ‘Yeoman of the sheets, make fast!’

      The petty officer called the men aft at Robert’s command and they secured and hauled in the line, their backs bent against the strength of the wind as they pulled the yard around into position.

      Robert looked up at Shaw through the squalling rain and signalled him to come down, their task complete. The boatswain